


The Blood in Your Mouth.

by Quinquangularist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Eridan is dumb, M/M, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Sollux is an Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinquangularist/pseuds/Quinquangularist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine."<br/>- Richard Siken</p>
<p>He's a convenient sort of kismesis, you suppose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blood in Your Mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't look at me. 
> 
> Unbeta'ed so please point out any mistakes you spot, it's a great help.

Your name is Sollux Captor, and your kismesis is flushed for you.  
Eridan Ampora is a douchebag of the highest order. He's pathetic and useless and despised by everyone and yet, he still finds it in himself to keep going. Despite the taunts and jibes from everyone, (and you mean EVERYONE, even Tavros for fucks sake) he shoves his dumb glasses up on his freckled nose and gets back to whatever it was he had fucked up the first time.  
As much as it would be pitiful if it wasn't him, the looks he sends your matesprit are enough to turn you off him for good. She's his ex-morail, so you'd accept that that might mean some hard feelings, but it doesn't justify the glares of pure malice he directs at her. Not even contempt, as if he thought he were better, just lonely bitterness.  
He's disgusting. Weak and spineless and for all his talk of blood hierarchy and genocide, a cowardly bastard.  
So when he melts underneath you, violet-tinted tears stuck to spidery eyelashes and tells you he's red for you, you're really not sure what to make of him.  
He's a convenient sort of kismesis, you suppose. You could (and do) fuck him up a wall and then leave him in a pool of his own genetic material, boneless and bleeding, only to have him crawl right back for more as soon as any vague semblance of strength returns to him.  
You enjoy watching the seadweller squirm. The fact that he pities you only makes you hate him more and besides, he hasn't any other quadrants anyway.  
You can do whatever the hell you want, and nobody will give a single festering fuck about him.  
And you do. Frequently.  
But, in disproval if popular belief, you're not actually a bad guy, and you're starting to feel, not so much ashamed or guilty, but… weird, about the way you treat the poor scumbag. 

||||

Your name is Eridan Ampora and you feel both wonderful and terrible at once. Your kismesis (for that's what he is, much as you wish otherwise) is still talking to you, surprising after your outburst a few nights ago. Confessing had to have been the worst possible thing you could've done. He's got a matesprit. A beautiful, funny, enigmatic matesprit who'll be empress one day.  
And that aches like a kick in the gills. He snarls and bites and hurts with you, laughs and smiles and loves with her, and you're jealous.  
You're jealous even when he's with you, claws ripping into your thighs as you howl, writhing on the floor. Jealous as he shudders and moans, teeth deep in your flesh while you wrap desperate arms around his still-clothed back.  
Even as the world around you fades away in a bright, pulsing flash of light, your horns clacking on the ground as you collapse, breathing ragged and eyes squeezed shut.  
He unhooks your claws from his shirt, rolling bony shoulders. You count his footsteps as he walks away.  
Your everywhere hurts, now that the afterglow is gone. You can feel every bite, scratch and bruise that he gave you. You can feel the violet and gold cooling and congealing, sticking to your back and groin.  
Your eyes hurt from crying.  
You lie there freezing for quite some time, waiting for the feeling of bonelessness to go away.  
Footsteps and your eyes snap open, out of focus and tired. You're feeling around for your glasses when they're pressed into your hand by long fingers that you immediately recognise.  
"C'mon you stupid shit. I can't leave you here."  
A towel lands on your chest, aggravating the wounds there.  
Teeth clenched, you wipe your oversensitive skin with deep, shaky breaths.  
Warm hands slide beneath you and you're rising, clinging for dear life to those same angular shoulders.  
You know it's mostly psiionics holding you up, but the idea of being held is nice. It makes your bloodpusher ache ever so slightly.  
It's not until you're dumped into a recoopracoon that you realise, he hasn't left yet. He's here. With you.  
Before you can get to pondering the unusual, he slips into the sopor behind you, warm breath giving you goosebumps.  
You lie there, unable to sleep with the knowledge that he's right there. Right there with you. The notion is more comforting than it should be.  
Minutes after your own breathing slows, he wraps his long arms around you, your back pressed flush to his chest and his lips on your neck. It is the closest thing to love you've ever felt.  
Perhaps, you think, there is hope for you yet.


End file.
